


Love Too, Will Ruin Us

by notoverit



Category: House M.D.
Genre: "unrequited love" that turns out to be extremely requited (lol surprise!), Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, the cheap old school fandom kind of misunderstandings.....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9448799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoverit/pseuds/notoverit
Summary: "That's ridiculous. There's no such thing as love at first sight. No. Here's how I fell in love with you. The first time I saw you, you were doing your polite laugh at some old boring oncologist and I thought, 'I want to make him laugh for real.' And the second time I saw you, you looked like you hated everyone and I thought, 'I have to make him like me.' And the third time I saw you I made you laugh and you seemed to actually like me and I thought, 'This is it for me. I don't want anything but this for the rest of my life and I'll take however much of it he gives me.'"





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm annoyed that I lost the draft of the second chapter of my other House fic and I needed to do something different before rewriting that whole thing so I turned to this more miserable plot. I vow to finish that one though. In the meantime, welcome to a mess in three parts.

He can see the faint outline of Wilson’s back. Through the small crack left in the bedroom door a thin sliver of light cuts the jet black of the room and draws a line right down the middle of the bed. House on one side of it and Wilson on the other. How fitting. Poetic even. He squints hard and lets the blurry shapes in front of him come into focus. He doesn’t want to miss a second of this, he never does. He gets a chance to drink in the sight of Wilson sitting at the edge of his bed, half-naked, without being observed or interrupted and he’s greedy for it. He stares at the smooth skin, the ridges of his vertebrae, the movement of muscles. _The trapezius flexing. He has a small knot in the posterior deltoid, totally my fault._  Wilson is pulling on those ridiculous calf-high cashmere socks of his ( _What? That’s what adult men wear with dress shoes House!_ ) and then pausing, sighing, running one hand through his hair, reaching for his shirt, swearing softly when he finds the sleeves tangled. Every single movement is so  _Wilson._  It’s unbearable.

It’s the same routine every time he gets Wilson in his bed. Hating that he leaves, loving that he gets to watch him get dressed, wanting him to stay, loathing himself for not doing anything about it, scheming to make sure they end up here again.

What would Wilson tell him to do? He wishes he could ask.This is the only thing he doesn't like about having sex with Wilson, which is otherwise shaping up to be the thing he likes best in the entire world. Annoyingly, however, he is sleeping with the person he wants to run to and gossip with about his sex life. He is sleeping with the person wants to sit in the cafeteria with, splitting fries, and dissecting this relationship and why exactly he can’t get the man he’s been sleeping with for a month to spend the night in his bed. Worst of all he is sleeping with the only person he would run to for advice—or well, at least the person he would complain to, who would then give him an unsolicited lecture that he would secretly take to heart and never admit to having taken to heart.

So what would Wilson tell him to do? 

“Don’t go,” he says.  _There. Aren’t you proud of me Wilson?_ _Vulnerability, openness, communication, all the stuff you always tell me to do._ His voice comes out like gravel. 

Wilson freezes with his left shoe held aloft. He turns to look at him, half twisted on the bed, and smiles. It’s warm and affectionate but House hasn’t studied studied James Wilson for over a decade without knowing when he’s holding something back. “I have a department meeting early tomorrow,” he says, finally putting on that shoe he’s been holding. “And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your signature ’showing up around noon’ routine by waking you up. I remember how my loud toenails and my blowdryer mess with your mojo,” he grins over his shoulder as he ties his shoelaces, all friendly teasing and good-natured banter.

“I wouldn't mind,” he says, holding Wilson’s gaze but not smiling back, not letting him turn it into a joke. “I want you to stay.”

Wilson looks away quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just—I need clothes and the paperwork that I left in my other briefcase but uh, thanks for offering,” he looks at him, smiling again, genuine but strained. “I’ll see you tomorrow and we can—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He lingers a little as though expecting House to respond. When he doesn’t, Wilson nods to himself as if to say ‘well that's settled then,’ pivots on his heels and walks out the door, shutting it behind him, shutting out the little sliver of light. House runs two fingers along the sheet where it used to be. He hears Wilson slamming the apartment door shut.

Enough with the hinting and flirting, he decides. He starts hatching a plot to make James Wilson his boyfriend.

 

* * *

Here’s the thing: everyone’s got it wrong. They think Wilson is the one trailing after him. But in reality it’s always been House chasing Wilson from the very first minute they had met. House had sprang Wilson out of jail, gotten him the job at PPTH, asked him to dinner, gotten him to come to monster truck rallies, refused to let Wilson forget about him when he got married.

He’s the one who had launched himself lips-first at Wilson’s face, too. He wasn’t even drunk. He had no excuses. It’s just that usually Wilson comes over after a bad break up and drinks too much tequila and accepts House’s mocking rants and falls asleep on the couch. It’s just that this time Wilson had sat there so sad and beautiful and sober (almost terrifying in how quiet and unreadable he was, suddenly). After a long stretch of silence, he’d said, “I’m so tired of being alone.” He’d said, “I don’t even know if she liked me, you know? I mean. I don’t even know if she knew me.” He’d said, “I don’t think anyone...sees me.” Then, for the first time since entering the apartment, he’d looked at House directly and he’d smiled so sweetly and said, “You’re the only one."

And House (who was famous for his poor self-control and deserved accolades for having managed to resist kissing Wilson for over a decade) couldn’t be expected to resist that, couldn’t be expected to resist James Wilson looking at him almost like he loved him ( _he does love me, he does_ , he’d told himself, _just not like that_ ) and so (before he could utilize ten years of resistance training) he had smashed his lips against Wilson’s in a facsimile of a kiss. This had been idiotic, yes. But later House had reasoned that even someone as clever as he should be expected to slip up when the love of their life looks at them with a smile that could melt glaciers and says, “You’re the only one” (context be damned).

Yes, he made a mistake. But it wasn’t too late to recover. Not too late to pretend it was a headbutt instead of a kiss (it could work...he was surprised his lip smash hadn’t broken Wilson’s nose) or turn it into a joke. 

It’s just that Wilson had put one steadying hand to the back of his head and kissed him back.

It’s just that he’s in love with Wilson. 

So, instead of laughing or yelling or running or doing any of the other things that he knows he should do to stop himself from ending the only friendship that matters in his life, he hangs on for dear life and takes what he can get. Because it’s every bit as good as he could have imagined (in fact, when he slips and lets himself imagine this, he never lets it get this good). Wilson cups his face and drags a thumb against the corner of his eye and grunts the first time House slips a tongue into the kiss, makes a sound like it’s hurting him as much as it’s hurting House, like he knows what it’s like to want someone for fifteen years. 

So instead of running away, he’s dropping to his knees between Wilson’s legs and trailing fingers up along the seam of his pants and undoing the belt with surprisingly nimble hands ( _thank you piano, thank you surgery, thank you masturbation for this feast we are about to receive_ ). And Wilson is plucking at every part of his t-shirt that he can reach, trying to pull him back up, saying, “No House, you’re going to kill your leg—“

“This useless piece of shit has been cramping my style for way too long," he'd countered, "Right now I want to give you the best blowjob of your life and I don’t care how much it’s gonna hurt.” 

At that point, he has to stop Wilson from embarrassing himself by trying to argue back with his dick hanging out of his pants. He does the only thing he can. He sucks Wilson down as far as he can on the first go and Wilson _does_ in fact stop trying to argue about leg pain and arches back into the sofa, groaning, clutching at the sofa cushions.

It had been House chasing him in this, too. Ever since that first night, it had been House making sure they end up here over and over.

 

* * *

 

Wilson doesn’t look up from his paperwork when House bursts into his office. He doesn't even pause his frantic scribbling. He looks particularly saintly today. Probably going above and beyond to tweak everyone’s pain meds for that week.

“I think we should break up,” House announces loudly, thumping his cane against the floor twice as punctuation.

He misses a singular beat in the rhythm of his writing. Other than that, nothing.

“I’m serious,” he says, bending at the waist to get himself in Wilson’s line of sight, “I think we should stop having sex.”

Wilson stops prescribing poison to dying little kids and looks up at him, eyes searching his face. Ah, finally. Now Wilson’s going to pester him about why he’s breaking it off. House is going misdirect and confuse him but Wilson is smart. He’s going to figure it out before lunch. He’s going to eliminate the other possibilities, finally arriving at the correct conclusion: it’s not that House wants the sex to stop, it’s that he doesn’t want it to be the only thing. He wants everything that goes with it. He wants the full “dating James Wilson” package. Frankly, it's offensive that he’s not receiving the full treatment already. He’s done his homework (even endured Bonnie's personality for the sake of research) and he knows that even the most casual of Wilson’s flings involve many candlelit dinners and handholding and talking about feelings. He’ll settle for pizza and the Discovery Channel and blowjobs.

It’s going to be frustrating. Wilson is going to idiotically assume that House is just being an ass. But eventually he’ll march into House’s office, put one hand on his hip and point the other at him in triumph. “I _knew_  it,” he’ll say with that smug smile that looks so good on him, “you’re a huge sap." They’re going to be doing it in the janitor’s closet before the day is out and then Wilson will take him on a proper date for once. Maybe they’ll go to that new steakhouse right off Glenn. Yes, House definitely deserves steak after all of this is over.

House follows this scenario to its logical conclusion in the time it takes for Wilson to put his pen down. He is ready for Wilson to launch into a hurt tirade. Instead this happen:

“Okay,” Wilson says with a tight nod and picks up the next file from the pile on his desk.

“Okay?” House jeers.

“Okay,” Wilson confirms.

 How is it that he never anticipates the power of Wilson’s non-reaction techniques? This guy’s good.

“No. Not ‘okay.’ You’re not okay with this. You need to dissect everything. You launched a federal investigation on why the lunch lady stopped saying hi to you. You couldn’t let go of the fact that Chen from rheumatology doesn’t like you. But your best friend who you’ve been sleeping with for a month just walks in to your office and cuts off little Jimmy’s all access pass to Disney World and…what? You just don’t care?”

He sees Wilson's laugh more than he hears it. “House if there’s anything I’ve learned from being friends with you, it’s that I can’t just get whatever I want if I just _care_ enough.”

“So you _do_ want to keep having sex with me?” he counters.

Wilson sighs and hangs his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. Wilson has very eloquent sighs. This one, for example, clearly communicates _, You **would**  choose to focus on that one detail of what I’m saying.  _

“Since when have you cared about what I want?”

_Since that first day. Our entire relationship has secretly been running on what you want and don’t want from me._

Instead he rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s never stopped you from expressing yourself before. You wanna get all shy now that I’ve had your dick in my mouth?”

“Screw you. This is why I didn’t want—“ he holds back, sighs. “You know what? No. I’m not letting you turn this into an argument. You said you wanted to stop. That’s fine with me. I’m sorry I deprived you of the joy of watching me agonize and fret over what it means. It’s quite heartless of me, ruining your planned entertainment for the morning. Tight schedule today, you understand. Maybe I can pencil you in for tomorrow?”

House blinks at him. “You’re really fine with this,” he says. It comes out even.  

Wilson drops the sarcastic demeanor and looks at him more openly now. “Look, House. We both knew going in what this was and what it wasn't. I’m not about to go clingy ex on you, if that’s what you’re worried about. You don’t need to goad me into some cathartic fight,” he says in his most reassuring tone, “we’re still going to be friends.” 

Suddenly, it clicks into place in House’s mind. Everything he’d have seen instantly if it had been an outsider looking in to their relationship. The reason Wilson never stayed over, the reason he suddenly turned down his invitations to dinner and movies, the reason Wilson doesn’t seem torn up about being broken up with. It isn’t a break up because it was never a relationship. He’d naively thought that Wilson was just being cautious, hesitant to take it to the next level because he needed House to nudge him along.

“You’re not even surprised,” House realizes out loud, his voice still thankfully devoid of any tells. “You never expected it to last this long.”

Wilson attempts a smile. Good. He's clearly reading the ‘epiphany’ on his face as relief rather than devastation. “I knew what I was signing up for,” he says, twirling the pen between his fingers.

It’s funny that he’s able to just stand there and blink when his world is coming to an end.

_Elevated heart rate. Tremors. Gastric acid._  What people usually characterize as heartbreak is actually simple biology, he knows that. It hurts the same as if he didn't know at all.  

Images of all the things he’s said and done (and _let Wilson do_ )come to him, unbidden. He almost flinches with shame. He’d _begged_ for more, he’d screamed, he’d gotten down on his knees for Wilson. Both knees, even the bad leg. He’d let Wilson convince him it was real—No this was no one’s fault but his own. Wilson had made it as clear as he possibly could. Well, it _was_ Wilson’s fault that he was physically incapable of having sex without making it all feelings and romance but House should have remembered that, should have remembered Bonnie telling him, “Sex with James? Fantastic. No one works harder to give a woman what she wants.” And apparently “James” worked hard to give you what you wanted regardless of gender.

Wilson probably took home one night stands and treated them the same way he had treated House, all tender and soft kisses and sweetly murmured encouragements.   _I want you so much I want you I want you._ Touching his jaw. _You feel incredible._ A hand in his hair. _Oh my god you’re brilliant so good so good._ Their hands clasped together on the sheets. _How much I want you how good you feel—how incredible you—_ Wilson's fingers on his scar, so gentle, reverent almost. _Don’t. You don’t have to look—Shhh, it’s just a scar. Makes you kind of hot in that gruff damaged action hero way, just ask Cameron._ That had made House huff out a laugh. Then, he remembers, a kiss pressed where there are barely enough sensory neurons left to even feel it. Bonnie’s voice reminds him: “James Wilson, carefully calibrating his level of protectiveness to your individual needs."

He really does flinch outwardly at that memory, hand immediately clasping his leg as it seizes up with phantom pain. The soft press of lips against his ruined thigh muscle. His body recoils, remembering the sensation. Shame. Embarrassment. Letting someone he loved see him like that when it was, in reality, just a simple friends-with-benefits arrangement. 

Strong hands on his shoulder. “You okay?” 

“No. I have a giant hole in my leg,” he snaps back. He reaches for the bottle in his pocket, swallows two pills.  

Wilson rolls his eyes. “I meant if your leg is seizing I can get the masseuse in here,” Wilson says, trying to get him to the couch. He shrugs off the help and heads for the door instead.

“Sorry, gotta run. Well, not _literally_  run, obviously. But gotta limp with speed to attend to my dying patient."

 

* * *

He supposes this is good. It’s good that it’s over before they really had a chance to make a mess of everything, before he got attached beyond the point of repair. Already, he’d been finding it harder and harder to leave House every time. Sated and blissed out, it had been so easy to want to wake up with him. He’d imagined blinking his eyes open the next morning to find House already awake and smiling at him, poking him in the ribs to get up and make macadamia nut pancakes. But he’d drag himself out of bed every time. “Where are you going?” House would ask and Wilson would come up with some excuse while fishing for his clothes. House didn’t buy his lies. He knew that. But he also knew that House hated sharing his bed after sex and was only asking because it was unusual for Wilson _not_ to spend the night with someone after sex. 

What could he say?  _I’m in love with you and I’m leaving because I think I might fall more in love with you if I stay._ House would have a field day with the information. He’d put banners all around the hospital and glibly toss it in his face every time he needed a favor. It was good to lie, he’d figured, because there was nothing House loved as much as a mystery. It was bound to keep him interested even if it would end in disaster for Wilson if House ever figured it out. 

The apartment he used to share with Amber had started to feel colder and emptier every time he returned to it from House's apartment. Sometimes he stripped before going to bed. Sometimes he simply slipped his shoes and coat off and slid under the covers fully dressed. He skipped taking a shower until the morning, not quite ready to erase the sex from his body. Usually he tossed and turned for hours, thinking it over until he passed out in exhaustion. Sometimes he got hard again replaying it in his head—House on his knees, their hands threaded together, the noises he made when Wilson touched him— and slipped a hand down his pants, masturbating frantically, efficiently, just to get it over with. He always woke up the next day with an empty feeling in his stomach, a certainty about the _wrongness_ of it all. He couldn’t do this. He was already in too deep. He was sure that he needed to break it off. But he couldn’t. 

But House has taken care of that for him. Undoubtedly he wants Wilson to react to it, to prove some sort of point about how Wilson is actually terrible with intimacy or that he's too clingy and can't handle a "friends with benefits" arrangement or, most likely, how Wilson needs to come out of the closet. Well, he is not going to give House the satisfaction of behaving at all out of the ordinary.

To prove this point, he walks down the hall and to the Diagnostics Office a few hours after House breaks the news to him, leans against the glass frame and asks: “Lunch?”

House pauses his vigorous game of “toss the ball in the air” and looks up at him, smiling brightly. “What’s a procedure that could cause abdominal pain, fever and delirium in a patient who came in with lung and heart problems?”

“You think it was something you did here that caused the new symptoms?” Wilson crosses his arms, frowning.

House shrugs. “Ruled out everything else.”

“Okay, so…” he wonders out loud, “you make your minions do every test again because you think other doctors are incompetent. That means he gets jabbed with needles, exposed to radiation, injected with dye—“

“The dye,” House says with a far-off look on his face. Wilson almost expects him to run out of the room.

“Iodine allergy,” Wilson realizes aloud, “it was masked by the cardiovascular symptoms.”

“Very good,” House says, smiling at him with particular delight. “You’re, like, completely wrong. Like, the opposite of right. Like, 'the _iodine_ was masking the symptoms of his real condition' kind of wrong. Otherwise, very good though.”

Wilson listens with great delight as House explains exactly big of an idiot he is, deduces the exact nature of the wheezing soccer player’s heart problem, and calls his team to tell them how they were idiots and to start the kid on broad spectrum antibiotics.

 “You’re buying,” House declares at the end of his victorious phone call. 

“What?” he asks fuzzily, trying to snap out of his besotted staring.

“You came here to ask me to lunch. I’m saying that you will be paying for mine, as always. God, Wilson. I’m usually just boosting my own ego when I call you an idiot but you’ve been alarmingly slow lately,” House croons in mock-concern. 

Wilson knows he’s still smiling like an idiot. It felt so good to bounce around ideas with House again, to stand in this office, about to go to lunch…it feels like they haven’t had this in forever. Oh.

“Ahhh, having a moment of realization are we?” House says, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“We didn’t hang out when we were…because I was awkward, because I couldn’t handle the whole friends-with-benefits…you broke it off so we would be friends again,” he mumbles to himself, running a hand over his face. “I was so selfish,” he says. “You needed a friend and I bailed on you."

“You’ve never been selfish in your whole damn life,” House says, as though that fact is causing him immeasurable pain. “Come on. You can make it up to me by buying me two steaks and all the ice creams I can eat, which is a lot.”

Walking down the hallway, their arms brush against each other. 

“I missed you,” Wilson adds for good measure, nudging his friend’s shoulder playfully as they walk towards the elevator.

House rolls his eyes. “You’re being gayer now then when you were shoving your dick in—“

“House,” he warns as they enter the crowded elevator. The limping twerp listens to him this once, thank goodness.


End file.
